Not Even Myself

Today I showered about six times. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit, but I was sweating so much every minute that there was a salty streak down my spine at the end of the day. Your clothing, hair style, activity level - none of it matters. Here in Majuro, you would sweat if you shaved your head and laid in a freezer in a bikini. I always though I was tolerant of the heat (you know, because I lived in Egypt and traveled and bla bla bla...) but our scorching Alberta days are the winter slums for this island. The wind and rain are so welcome by me at this point that I almost made my kindergarten class just tough it out at recess today.

Oh ya - I'm teaching kindergarten and none of them speak English. On top of it all, I'm absolutely convinced that every single one of the twenty-two maniacs is either ADD, ADHD or just insane. They spent all morning throwing chairs, punching each other and screaming Marshallese words at me. The substitute teacher's aid was yelling back with equal vigour and speed walking around the classroom, grabbing children and separating fights. They learned my name - kind of. And we learned the letter Z - kind of. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to die - kind of. I was handed a binder and told to make lesson plans, due Monday morning, but when Miss Sylvia, my permanent aid, gave me the instructions, I just stared at the translucent green sheet covers with absolutely no thoughts in my mind. For the first time in my life, I thought about nothing. Nothing at all. It's a terrifying feeling. What am I supposed to do with these kids?! Another of the SM's, Gunnar (who - shock of my life - went to high school with me) said he's taught K2 PE a couple times and they just rip the foam balls into pieces and start eating them. What.

One boy, Damian, just walks around the classroom in circles, singing songs to himself and bobbing his head. From the signs, I'd say high-functioning autism, because he listens when I try to teach him something and speaks quite easily, but he always whispers. For an hour today he walked between the playground and the compound wall, back and forth, pausing every now and then to stare at the sky and then jump back to a walk. The precious kid's autistic, without a doubt. So, how do I teach him and twenty-one other kids when his needs are so different from Paul's (who constantly makes up the most random stories) and Benjamin (who just wants to sit and stare at you)? I know that one on one time is important, but how do I give him that? I've got to come up with some ideas.

On a slightly less distressing topic, I've moved into my apartment - alone. And it's so lonely. But, I got the whole thing set up like I want it, which isn't saying much, seeing as it's a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. Although spacious, it's bare. Nothing is on the walls and everything is white. The kitchenette isn't too bad on first inspection, but the hot water is non-existent, only two stove-top burners are currently functioning and the oven only heats to 200 degrees. The bathroom is cleaner and better made than I was expecting, and although there's no hot water for showers, the cold water is delightful. The bedroom is simple, with two beds and two dressers and a shelving unit/closet rod. There's only one window, which makes the nights a little hotter than I would like, but I just lay on top of the sheets and ensure that nothing touches me.

Not to fear, however, because my roommate comes tomorrow. Mysterious Victoria will arrive sometime and move in sometime and I'm not sure how it will all work out, but having someone in that big, empty, sweltering space is so much better than just me and my geckos, Fred and Frieda. Sometimes, I just talk to myself and expect the toaster to respond. Being homesick and lonely while surrounded by people is not a completely new feeling to me, but the next eight months are stretching before me like the Marianas Trench and I've got a snorkel.

There were three things that kept me from crying this afternoon: a nap, the school's dogs and that hyper-cliche-but-still-so-meaningful verse in Romans 8. Knowing that nothing can separate me from God's love is something I have to be reminded of all the time. Yes, I was sent out as a missionary to spread God's love and help people, but remembering that God's love and help is for me too is a lesson I learn every day. I'm way too good at convincing myself and everyone else around me that I've got everything under control. I will look you in the eye, nod my head confidently and say, "yes, of course". That really means nothing. Sooner or later I have an actual mental breakdown and when my friends and family say it's ok, I know that it's not. Because I spend all day asking God to be beside me but to keep His distance. I ask Him to walk with me and hold my hand, but if I start to trip up, don't help, because I've got this. But I don't, at all, ever. And as this goes on, I forget that God's love is for me.

"And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow - not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below - indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

Nothing in all creation. Not an ocean. Not an impossible kindergarten class. Not even myself.